Every time I hear "I'll be home for Christmas", a song written about a soldier away from home in wartime, I think of my dad in World War II spending Christmas 1944 in Germany. He was in the Ardennes in Belgium, the Battle of the Bulge. So far away from home, in combat, and probably wishing he was home. He made it home, but not after spending one more Christmas overseas, this time in occupied Germany, soon headed home in a troop ship.
I never spent a Christmas overseas away from my family, but there was one Christmas when I was on my own, and far from where my parents lived. It was 1982, and two days before Thanksgiving I was laid off from my job in construction. At the end of the day on Tuesday, our foreman told us "after tomorrow, that's it. No more work for a while". No severance pay, no vacation, no nothing. That's it alright. I filed for unemployment, looked for work but it was recession time, and winter to boot, so not many jobs for a 23 year old with no degree and not many skills.
I spent a lot of time alone in my duplex, watching TV and lamenting about my life. I lived in Northern California, and my parents had retired to Minnesota. I was looking forward to a pretty dismal Christmas and New Years.
After Thanksgiving, my parents called me and said, 'why don't you come to Minnesota for Christmas, we'll pay for your ticket'. Of course this was way before the Internet and Travelocity, so I had to get a ticket and they would pay me back. I had about $200 in savings, and very little cash in my pocket. I did get a round trip ticket from California to Minnesota for $200 (remember, this is the early 80s), so I headed to Minnesota.
I flew into Minneapolis, then caught a flight to Bemidji in Northern Minnesota. This included a stop over in Brainerd Minnesota. The twin turbopop came in for a landing, slid a bit back and forth down the ice and snow covered runway, dropped off some mail and passengers, and then slipped and slid down the runway, headed for the skies again. I was not sure if I would survive the trip. But I made it to Bemidji.
Dad was there to meet me, sitting in his pickup with the heater on, snacking on malted milk balls. It was cold. Really cold, compared to the warmth of California. I loaded my bags in the pickup and we headed off to home, about an hour away. The roads were covered with ice and snow too, just like the runway in Brainerd. 'The roads are in pretty good shape', dad is telling me. 'As long as you keep one wheel on dry pavement there's plenty of traction'. We came to a 4 way stop, and a car approaching from the right hit his brakes, did a couple 360s through the intersection, and proceeded on his way. Dad didn't even seem to notice, he kept talking about how good the roads were. My God, these people are insane.
We made it home, a warm cozy house, and in time for dinner. I can almost remember the smell of dinner, and seeing Mom greet me. They were happy to have me home, the baby of the family. I spent the next couple weeks visiting relatives, played a lot of cards with Great Auntie Alma and Great Uncle Otto, ate way too much food, and spend New Years Eve in Shorty's Place, celebrating with my parents and Auntie Flo and Uncle Floyd. I called bingo for the old folks at the nursing home where Mom worked. (Never, ever miss a call in bingo. Tough crowd.) For a couple weeks I was able to put my cares behind me, and be safe and secure in the family nest. Mom made nice hot meals and Dad made cinnamon rolls and hot buttered rum drinks. Looking back, it was probably just what I needed then. I was home for Christmas. The memory of that Christmas, being with Mom and Dad, is one of the brightest Christmas memories I have.
Dad was quite proud of all the firewood he had cut and put up for the winter. He had installed a wood heater to supplement the oil fired furnace in the basement. Now this would probably be called a 'hybrid home energy system' or something like that. Dad put it in to save money and to have the warmth of oak, maple and birch in the house. Some of the wood he had cut near Auntie Flo's house. He found a curious piece of wood there and saved it. It was a piece of oak, with a 2" hole bored through it. He showed that to me and remarked how odd that was. I said, not so odd, I bored that hole through a small oak tree years ago with Grandpa's wood auger. I would give anything to have that piece of wood now.
Mom was working part time at a nursing home in town, and quite proud of having this job and having earned a Nurse's Assistant certificate from the state. It had been her dream as a young woman to become a nurse, but marriage and kids and life got in the way. In retirement she somewhat realized that dream. She brought me to her job, (several times) and introduced me to her boss, her co workers, and all her patients. When she worked the overnight shift, Dad would bring his cinnamon rolls to Mom and 'the other girls' on the shift. I suspect he liked the attention.
That was the last Christmas I spent with both my Mom and Dad. Two years later, I was home again with Mom for Christmas, along with my sisters and brother, for Dad had passed away 10 days before Christmas. A sad time, but it made me appreciate the other Christmas that much more. Christmas has a way to make us happy and sad at the same time. It's the human condition. Better to feel happy and sad than to not feel at all. Maybe it's not really sad, but rather looking back and being grateful for the years past and the memories we will carry with us forever.
The years go by, and now I'm the parent, waiting for the kids to come home for Christmas. My youngest is flying home soon, and needless to say I'm awaiting his arrival with great anticipation. I probably won't be eating malted milk balls while waiting for his plane to arrive, but maybe I'll tell him what great shape the roads are in, and try to keep one wheel on the dry track in the road.
I'll be home for Christmas, you can plan on me...
Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Thursday, September 1, 2016
raising hilda
Several years ago, after much prodding by my Aunt Max, my cousin Jo (Max's daughter) and I raised the headstone of great Aunt Hilda, who passed away in the early 20th century. With help from my sons and my sister, we dug, pried, pushed, and pulled by rope to pop Hilda's stone out of the ground. We then put some gravel and dirt in the hole and re set the stone, now level with the grass, more or less. We did a fine job and Max was pleased. On that day we also poured a bit of concrete for a couple other stones and did some general clean up. Max brought enough food to feed an army, and we had a fine time. You see, in many small town cemeteries, the upkeep is pretty much do it yourself, so we did it ourselves.
Two years ago, my sons and I made a trip to the same cemetery to set my mom's stone. We carefully dug out the earth where it would be set, built a form, set the stone and poured some concrete around it. I troweled the concrete smooth, and having finished my work, I stood up and for the first time saw my parent's graves side by side. The grief I felt was crushing, and I fell to my knees and wept. My sister came to my side and comforted me. Our final act for mom and dad, not done out of obligation but rather a sense of caregiving for those who cared for us.
When I was a young boy, my parents and I would travel by car from where we lived in northern California to Minnesota to visit family. Once we arrived in Minnesota and were settled in for our visit my dad would always go to the local cemetery to see his brother Palmer's grave. Dad took me with on these trips, and back then cemeteries gave me the 'willies'. All those dead people, people I never knew, but with familiar names. Palmer was killed in World War II, very close to the end of the war in Europe. After the war, Palmer was reburied in the little country cemetery, and like so many other young men given a granite headstone. Over the years, the stone became discolored and stained by an oil can that someone had placed on it, no doubt in the course of mowing the grass one spring. The stain from the oil can spread, and every year Dad would say that the stone should be cleaned, but he never got around to it. I don't know why he didn't but I suspect one reason could be the never ending grief he felt for losing a brother he was very close to. A brother that he would not grow old with, nor share the joys of raising children and living lives.
Last week Jo and I made the trip to northern Minnesota and did cemetery maintenance. With the help of my sister and brother in law, we raised the headstones of our great-great grandparents, our great grandfather, and cleaned the headstones for Palmer, his mother (my grandmother), and my other grandmother, the grandma my sister and I shared with Jo. With a pumice stone, clear water and some elbow grease, I was able to get Palmer's stone looking much better, and his mother's stone too. Jo used some simple green, water and a brush to clean up our grandma's stone.
Sometime during the day, Jo remarked, "our moms are proud today". I think so too.
As Jo was scrubbing our Grandma's stone, I had a flashback to when I was 10 years old. On the advice of one of their sons, my uncle "Buster", Grandma and Grandpa went to see the move True Grit. The original with John Wayne, Kim Darby and Glen Campbell, among others. Grandma and Grandpa took me along, and I will never forget sitting in between them, watching the Old Man (Wayne) charge across a mountain meadow on a horse, reins in his teeth, a Winchester lever action in one hand, pistol in the other, taking on Ned Pepper and his gang. To this day, I get a chill when I see that scene. But, I digress.
At the end of the movie we see young Mattie Ross at her family grave site with Rooster Cogburn, tending to the grave of her father who was killed at the beginning of the movie. Mattie tells Rooster that she 'finds comfort in knowing where she will spend eternity'; next to her parents and siblings, and invites Rooster to lay next to her when the time comes.
This is what I flashed back to as Grandma's stone was being scrubbed. It's a little country cemetery, where our family goes back 4 generations or so, surrounded by fields, with the little town in the distance. I don't get the willies anymore when I visit that cemetery but rather I feel connected to those who came before me, who were born, lived lives, raised families, worked hard and now are spending eternity close to home and the people who mattered most to them. Having departed this life and moved on to the next, all that remains are their headstones and the memories they instilled into their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. They cleared the road for us, made us possible. The least we can do is to pass those memories on, and do a little maintenance on their markers.
Max once told me, that it would be up to Jo and I to take care of the graves and markers. Two years ago, I told my sons that someday they will do this work. They understood.
Rooster did wind up laying next to Mattie for eternity.
I'd like to think that Max and Mom, the Grandmas and Palmer were looking down and feeling proud. And feeling good that we were not shedding tears of grief, but enjoying being with family, and as our uncle Buster said, 'preserving our common heritage'.
I did, however, miss Aunt Max's macaroni salad. Almost as much as I miss her.
Two years ago, my sons and I made a trip to the same cemetery to set my mom's stone. We carefully dug out the earth where it would be set, built a form, set the stone and poured some concrete around it. I troweled the concrete smooth, and having finished my work, I stood up and for the first time saw my parent's graves side by side. The grief I felt was crushing, and I fell to my knees and wept. My sister came to my side and comforted me. Our final act for mom and dad, not done out of obligation but rather a sense of caregiving for those who cared for us.
When I was a young boy, my parents and I would travel by car from where we lived in northern California to Minnesota to visit family. Once we arrived in Minnesota and were settled in for our visit my dad would always go to the local cemetery to see his brother Palmer's grave. Dad took me with on these trips, and back then cemeteries gave me the 'willies'. All those dead people, people I never knew, but with familiar names. Palmer was killed in World War II, very close to the end of the war in Europe. After the war, Palmer was reburied in the little country cemetery, and like so many other young men given a granite headstone. Over the years, the stone became discolored and stained by an oil can that someone had placed on it, no doubt in the course of mowing the grass one spring. The stain from the oil can spread, and every year Dad would say that the stone should be cleaned, but he never got around to it. I don't know why he didn't but I suspect one reason could be the never ending grief he felt for losing a brother he was very close to. A brother that he would not grow old with, nor share the joys of raising children and living lives.
Last week Jo and I made the trip to northern Minnesota and did cemetery maintenance. With the help of my sister and brother in law, we raised the headstones of our great-great grandparents, our great grandfather, and cleaned the headstones for Palmer, his mother (my grandmother), and my other grandmother, the grandma my sister and I shared with Jo. With a pumice stone, clear water and some elbow grease, I was able to get Palmer's stone looking much better, and his mother's stone too. Jo used some simple green, water and a brush to clean up our grandma's stone.
Sometime during the day, Jo remarked, "our moms are proud today". I think so too.
As Jo was scrubbing our Grandma's stone, I had a flashback to when I was 10 years old. On the advice of one of their sons, my uncle "Buster", Grandma and Grandpa went to see the move True Grit. The original with John Wayne, Kim Darby and Glen Campbell, among others. Grandma and Grandpa took me along, and I will never forget sitting in between them, watching the Old Man (Wayne) charge across a mountain meadow on a horse, reins in his teeth, a Winchester lever action in one hand, pistol in the other, taking on Ned Pepper and his gang. To this day, I get a chill when I see that scene. But, I digress.
At the end of the movie we see young Mattie Ross at her family grave site with Rooster Cogburn, tending to the grave of her father who was killed at the beginning of the movie. Mattie tells Rooster that she 'finds comfort in knowing where she will spend eternity'; next to her parents and siblings, and invites Rooster to lay next to her when the time comes.
This is what I flashed back to as Grandma's stone was being scrubbed. It's a little country cemetery, where our family goes back 4 generations or so, surrounded by fields, with the little town in the distance. I don't get the willies anymore when I visit that cemetery but rather I feel connected to those who came before me, who were born, lived lives, raised families, worked hard and now are spending eternity close to home and the people who mattered most to them. Having departed this life and moved on to the next, all that remains are their headstones and the memories they instilled into their children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. They cleared the road for us, made us possible. The least we can do is to pass those memories on, and do a little maintenance on their markers.
Max once told me, that it would be up to Jo and I to take care of the graves and markers. Two years ago, I told my sons that someday they will do this work. They understood.
Rooster did wind up laying next to Mattie for eternity.
I'd like to think that Max and Mom, the Grandmas and Palmer were looking down and feeling proud. And feeling good that we were not shedding tears of grief, but enjoying being with family, and as our uncle Buster said, 'preserving our common heritage'.
I did, however, miss Aunt Max's macaroni salad. Almost as much as I miss her.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
Earl and George
I'm the youngest of 4 kids. I came along later than the rest, by 16, 15, and 11 years. So by the time I was starting school, the others were out of the house living lives, and I was home alone with mom and dad. I kind of missed having brothers and sisters around, and it was quite lonely at times. Later in my high school years I spent a lot of time with my best friend's family, he had 2 sisters and 4 brothers. Looking back, it seems I wanted that family time that I had somehow been denied by being the last born, by a good margin. But no matter, that's the way it was, so that's what we have to work with. As my great aunt Alma would say, '...buck up', but that is another story for another time.
My brother is 11 years older than me. When I was learning how to play dodge ball and write cursive, he was going through boot camp. When I was learning long division he was in Viet Nam. I was and still am very attached to my brother, but the reality is, for most of our lives it's been over long distance. So what we lack in quantity, we make up otherwise. As my youngest sister says, "it is what it is" . We're brothers. That says it all.
As a kid and a young teen, I spent a lot of time with my sisters and their families, they lived less than an hour away. In addition to my sisters, I had brother in laws, which was kind of a novelty for a young kid. I was an uncle at 9. Not bad, and it required no effort on my part.
My youngest sister's husband and I spent a lot of time together. His middle name was Earl, which I thought was funny. I would call him Earl, which I suspect he kind of liked. In return, he called me George. Beats the hell out of me where he got George, that's not my middle name (that too is another story), he probably just picked it out of the air and bestowed it upon me. I liked it. He had a real kid like sense of fun and curiosity about him, and he had the knack to make his own fun. He taught me how to bait a hook, how to skin a catfish. He showed me how to make a home made mortar out of a piece of pipe and firecrackers. Way way before Mythbusters came alone and blew stuff up on TV, we were doing that. But then again, that was before cable. He showed me how to make and fly a kite (cross sticks and box), and how to fix them after they crashed. He had motorcycles, and when I started down that path he would pick up parts for me when he and my sister would come to visit. He taught me to drive a car, if it wasn't for him I never would have gotten my license. He gave me my first set of tools, and lectured me on how to take care of them. Forty some years later, I still have some of them, prized possessions in my tool box.
When I was 14, he took me to see 'Blazing Saddles' when it came out in the theater. My first R rated movie. He laughed so hard during the movie that tears were coming down his cheeks, and days later we would recite lines from the movie and laugh all over again. It was good times. He wasn't my blood brother, but we had a good bond. We got along. He treated me like an adult. I tried to remember that lesson when my boys were growing up. My sister would kind of shake her head at our antics at times, and sometimes I suspect she thought she was raising two boys.
Eventually they had kids of their own, two girls who grew into wonderful, strong, smart women. I was lucky to spend a fair amount of time with them when they were little, and became very attached to them as well. (my nieces, all four of them, rock. So does my nephew. More blogs...) As time moved on I spent less time with them. I was growing up and jobs, cars, friends and school took up my time.
Much later in life, I found myself living close to them again. By then, my boys had come along, and they too enjoyed spending time with my sister and brother in law. The circle completes. My boys discovered his sense of being a kid, creating fun and enjoying life. I hope they will remember that and pass that on when the time comes.
Time has a nasty habit of moving on. Earl passed away some time ago, and my sister has since remarried, to a terrific guy who makes her laugh and is very attentive to her. A very good thing, because she deserves it. My oldest sister has been married to a great guy too for many years (we call him The Saint). I'm very lucky to have a great big brother, and two other brothers to boot. Very lucky indeed.
But years ago, there was a guy who kind of took me under his wing, and was a brother to me in every sense of the word. His secret was he treated me like an adult, while at the same time having the courage to still be a kid. I think that is a gift. An early life lesson that I will never forget.
Thanks Earl.
My brother is 11 years older than me. When I was learning how to play dodge ball and write cursive, he was going through boot camp. When I was learning long division he was in Viet Nam. I was and still am very attached to my brother, but the reality is, for most of our lives it's been over long distance. So what we lack in quantity, we make up otherwise. As my youngest sister says, "it is what it is" . We're brothers. That says it all.
As a kid and a young teen, I spent a lot of time with my sisters and their families, they lived less than an hour away. In addition to my sisters, I had brother in laws, which was kind of a novelty for a young kid. I was an uncle at 9. Not bad, and it required no effort on my part.
My youngest sister's husband and I spent a lot of time together. His middle name was Earl, which I thought was funny. I would call him Earl, which I suspect he kind of liked. In return, he called me George. Beats the hell out of me where he got George, that's not my middle name (that too is another story), he probably just picked it out of the air and bestowed it upon me. I liked it. He had a real kid like sense of fun and curiosity about him, and he had the knack to make his own fun. He taught me how to bait a hook, how to skin a catfish. He showed me how to make a home made mortar out of a piece of pipe and firecrackers. Way way before Mythbusters came alone and blew stuff up on TV, we were doing that. But then again, that was before cable. He showed me how to make and fly a kite (cross sticks and box), and how to fix them after they crashed. He had motorcycles, and when I started down that path he would pick up parts for me when he and my sister would come to visit. He taught me to drive a car, if it wasn't for him I never would have gotten my license. He gave me my first set of tools, and lectured me on how to take care of them. Forty some years later, I still have some of them, prized possessions in my tool box.
When I was 14, he took me to see 'Blazing Saddles' when it came out in the theater. My first R rated movie. He laughed so hard during the movie that tears were coming down his cheeks, and days later we would recite lines from the movie and laugh all over again. It was good times. He wasn't my blood brother, but we had a good bond. We got along. He treated me like an adult. I tried to remember that lesson when my boys were growing up. My sister would kind of shake her head at our antics at times, and sometimes I suspect she thought she was raising two boys.
Eventually they had kids of their own, two girls who grew into wonderful, strong, smart women. I was lucky to spend a fair amount of time with them when they were little, and became very attached to them as well. (my nieces, all four of them, rock. So does my nephew. More blogs...) As time moved on I spent less time with them. I was growing up and jobs, cars, friends and school took up my time.
Much later in life, I found myself living close to them again. By then, my boys had come along, and they too enjoyed spending time with my sister and brother in law. The circle completes. My boys discovered his sense of being a kid, creating fun and enjoying life. I hope they will remember that and pass that on when the time comes.
Time has a nasty habit of moving on. Earl passed away some time ago, and my sister has since remarried, to a terrific guy who makes her laugh and is very attentive to her. A very good thing, because she deserves it. My oldest sister has been married to a great guy too for many years (we call him The Saint). I'm very lucky to have a great big brother, and two other brothers to boot. Very lucky indeed.
But years ago, there was a guy who kind of took me under his wing, and was a brother to me in every sense of the word. His secret was he treated me like an adult, while at the same time having the courage to still be a kid. I think that is a gift. An early life lesson that I will never forget.
Thanks Earl.
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